The Life of Viola Hummel-Anderson
by nostalgic-rebel
Summary: Viola Hummel-Anderson is the 14-year-old daughter of Kurt (a Broadway star) and Blaine (a stay-at-home dad), who struggles with bullying, peer pressure, siblings and teenage drama, all with the support of her fathers.
1. Chapter 1

I don't know how much longer I can take it.

I feel so melodramatic saying that, but it's true. I don't want to go to school, face those kids, and the teachers who do nothing about it, and the people who used to be my friends. Even schoolwork, now, makes me so easily overwhelmed. I hate going and having to deal with all of that. It scares the Hell out of me.

There, I said it: I'm scared to go to school. And I guess the saddest thing about that is that I'm more scared of what school will cause me to do to myself than what school will actually do to me.

I think my Dads are starting to notice the change in me (I suppose I'm really bad at not letting my thoughts leak into my actions). It's mostly Dad, though, since Papa's been on Broadway for the past 3 months, only coming home every three weeks, and that's only for a week. I miss him, but I'm glad he's busy with his work (his dream) and doesn't have to deal with me (Even though I sometimes wish his dream didn't include a Broadway musical, because the kids at school don't think it's as awesome as we do). Dad's been occupied with my brothers; the football season has started, and Dad makes sure never to miss one of August's games and Sawyer is, as per usual, always vying for Dad's attention. So, it's easy for me to kind of fade into the background. Dad still makes time to talk to me every day and ask how I am, even though I never really give him a truthful answer.

I'm home alone right now. Dad and Sawyer are at one of Auggie's football games, and I decided to stay home. Usually Dad makes me go, or 'strongly encourages', but I told him I had homework and he believed me. Really, I don't, but I didn't feel like facing the world today. I just got back from school, and I just don't think I have the energy to fake being happy any more. Believe it or not, it's a trying task, being gleeful, and I really don't want to risk facing some of those kids at the football game. They might be there, and they might say things, and then my Dad will go all Lima Heights on them and then get mad at me because I didn't tell him earlier.

That's definitely a situation I want to avoid.

I know both Dad and Papa went through the whole bullying thing when they were kids and they rose above it and were proud of who they were despite what people told them, but my situation is different. I'm not gay. I'm just a clumsy, fat, awkward, stupid girl, and I know I am all those things. I actually agree with the bullies. And I want to change them, but I don't know how. And maybe that's my problem.

When August and I were little (and Sawyer was just a tiny baby), either Dad or Papa would tell us all stories every night at bedtime. Sometimes they'd tell classic fairy tales, sometimes they'd tell made-up stories using our names, and sometimes they'd tell stories of what happened to them 'once upon a time'. No matter what the story was, how much they loved us and how we were born perfect was somehow incorporated in there. And they still tell us that, without the bedtime stories, but those words are easier to say and believe at home, where I'm safe and warm and where people love me. High school is a much different place. Rules that apply at home just don't apply in high school.

It's a real shame, but it's true.

God, I really do miss Papa. I know he was just here a week ago, and that it's best that he's off living his dream, but I still miss him. Looking at the clock, I notice that it's 5:38. Papa's show on Tuesdays ends at 5:30, so he might not be busy right now.

I pick up my cellphone, dial his number and listen to the dial tone.

_Ring, ring, ring ring..._

"Viola?" the panicked voice of my Papa says, so high-pitched that I'm sure all the dogs in a 3-mile radius are going to come running. His voice gets frighteningly high when he's nervous. "Is everything okay?! What's the matter? Are the boys okay? Is it your father? Oh my God, what about August? He didn't break another bone, did he?"

"Calm down, Pops," I say. "Everyone's fine. I just thought I'd call and see how you're doing."

"Oh, whew..." Papa takes a moment to collect himself. "I'm doing great, but I miss you guys. You doing okay, sweetheart? You sound kind of blue."

Shit. "No, I'm fine. How was the show tonight?"

"Usual. No offensively transparent lingerie thrown onstage tonight!"

I smile at Papa's wonderful Papa-ness. "That's always good."

"How are the boys?"

"They're good. Dad and Sawyer just left to go to August's game."

"You didn't want to go?"

"Nah, I didn't feel like it."

"I wish I was with you! We could've had a girl-night!" Papa exclaims. "We could've eaten mini-quiches and had a Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan movie marathon!"

"I'd like that," I smile. "And we could have those peanut-butter cluster things that..."

"Oh, crap," Papa interrupts me. "Andrea just walked in. Viola, I've gotta go. Have a good night, love you! Send everyone my love!"

Papa hangs up the phone, and I almost feel worse than before I called him. Almost. It would've been nice if, for once, Papa's stupid agent didn't have to 'pop in' every five minutes. I've never actually met her (though I've seen numerous pictures of her smiling flirtatiously with Papa), but I really hate her. I know August doesn't care for her either, and I have a feeling Dad is kind of jealous of how much more time Andrea gets to spend with Papa nowadays. I don't blame Dad; it must be tough being a stay-at-home father to three kids while your husband is off living your dream on Broadway.


	2. Chapter 2

People are chasing me, through the school, down the hallways and in the classrooms, in and out of every door. I can hear their voices, the harassing comments and the taunting remarks that I hear all too often. I know who these people are, but I just can't look. I can't look behind me. I just have to keep running. Looking back would only slow me down. Sweat is pouring down my face and my legs feel like jelly, but I need to run. I have to keep running; they just can't catch up to me. All I know is that, if that happens, it won't be good.

And it never will.

I wake up to the sound of my own scream as I suddenly sit bolt upright in bed, huffing and puffing, drenched in sweat and a mess of tears.

"VIOLA!" Dad rushes into the room and throws his arms around me. "Are you okay, sweetheart? Did you have a bad dream?"

I nod my head, yes, as I wrap my arms around Dad and cry.

"Was it the same one that you used to have?" he carefully asks me, wary of my reaction.

Shaking my head, I sniffle and begin to sob as I hold him close.

I know that dream I used to have, and I know it all too well. The dream I used to have, though, was just a silly dream, really, about an evil witch that came into my room and tried to convince me to go away with her (never succeeding). I had that dream many times in my early childhood, and it was enough to terrify me, but this… This was my _reality_. This dream wasn't some frighteningly-imaginative figment of my young imagination, this was _real_. This was fear, and it was all too _real_.

"Shhh, sshh..." He tries to soothe me, rubbing my back as he sways me in his arms back and forth, just like how he soothed me when I was little. "It's okay now. I'm here. It's okay, baby. You're okay."

I hold Dad and sob into his pyjama-clad chest, releasing all the things I could never tell him in words.

"What's going on?" August sleepily wanders into my room and, although I look up to see him there, I quickly hide my face back in Dad's shirt.

"Viola's had a bad dream," Dad informs him quietly, holding me tight. "Go back to bed, buddy."

Once August leaves, Dad whispers to me while stroking my hair, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

I shake my head no. I feel safe in his arms, like if I just keep hanging on to him, things will somehow be okay. When he goes to let me go, I hold onto him tighter. "Please don't leave me."

"I was just-" he starts, and then sighs before gently smiling. "I'm not going to leave you, baby girl. Do you want me to spend the night here?"

Nodding, I let go of Dad so he can climb into the other side of the bed. I know I'm too old to have my Daddy sleep with me in the night, but I don't care. I just don't want to be alone, and that's the only thing I care about now. He lies down in bed and turns to face me.

"Try and get some sleep, Vi," Dad tells me.

"I don't know," I sob, "if I can."

Dad pushes my hair behind my ear, looking at me sympathetically. "Would you like me to sing to you?"

I sniffle as I nod.

Holding my hands, Dad begins to sing softly, barely above a whisper.

_"Isn't she lovely,_

_Isn't she wonderful,_

_Isn't she precious,_

_Less than one minute old..."_

Dad always tells me that, when the doctor first placed me in his arms, _Isn't She Lovely?_ was the song that first came to mind. He even told Papa in that moment, "Isn't she lovely?", and it was the first song Dad ever sang to me. From then on, it's been Dad and my song, and it always puts me at ease.

When he finishes singing, he wipes the tears from my eyes softly. "I love you."

Between weak sobs, I reply, "I love you too."

I cuddle up close to Dad's body, his warm arm around me. He falls asleep within moments, and I listen to his soft breathing until I eventually settle into an uneasy sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: Hey! Thanks for the follows, favourites, and reviews! I'm so glad you guys like the story! I thought I'd switch things up a bit and write this chapter from Blaine's point of view... Special thanks to my wonderfully awesome Twitter buddy blainerfly for the input and advice!  
I hope you all love reading this chapter as much as I loved writing it!  
Enjoy!**

BLAINE'S POV:

I guess waking up early is a side affect of being a father. Ever since the twins were newborns and up six times a night, I've never been able to sleep past nine o'clock, even on weekends when I don't have to be up to send the kids off to school. I slowly turn my head to look at the alarm clock.

It reads 9 AM, of course.

Lying beside me, if not more on top of me, is Viola. She looks so innocent and precious, just like when she was a baby, fast asleep. God, it kills me when she's upset like she was last night. It's just... It's the worst pain in the world when your baby is hurting and you can't do I thing to stop it, beside console them in the aftermath. My parents weren't the affectionate type when I was a child. Whenever I had a nightmare I was told to 'toughen up' and to stop crying. That was another thing about the Anderson's: they do not cry. Anderson's don't cry.

The Anderson-Hummel family is different, though. Anderson-Hummel's can cry, and they'll always be someone there to give comfort.

Careful not to wake Viola, I climb out of bed and walk out into the kitchen. Usually Sawyer is the first one up in the morning, seated in front of TV watching cartoons and eating Fruit Loops. Not today. Seeing that he's now nearly 11, he's officially in the 'preteen' stage and sleeps in like his teenage brother and sister. He's growing up fast, maybe too fast. They all are. Although it is nice, I must admit, to have a few moments to myself in the morning.

I make myself a cup of coffee and wander out into the living room. I put my legs up on the coffee table, and can't help but notice the picture of all of us, Kurt and the kids and I, sitting on top of it. The picture was taken back when Sawyer was about nine months old. He's sitting on my lap, a huge smile on his face and eyes curiously watching everything, and Kurt is beside me, holding little Viola. Her eyes are open wide, looking absolutely gorgeous and adorable, but shy and frightened, gripping Kurt's arm. And then there's August, in between us, standing proud and looking like a little man with his mischievous grin. That photograph is my favorite of the five of us, because all the kids' personalities are depicted so well: Sawyer: curious and outgoing, Viola: shy and innocent, and August, charming and confident. And then there's me and Kurt, and we're just the proudest parents, and the happiest people, in the whole wide world.

I know Kurt is off living his dream, and I couldn't be happier for him, but home just doesn't feel right without him. I could be selfish and say that I miss him and I want him to come home and be with me (which is true, all the same), but this family needs him. Our kids need both their Dads here. I think poor Viola would've felt a lot better if her Papa were there to help comfort her last night. Kurt and I have always been a team, in parenting and marriage and everything else, and it just doesn't seem right for me to be working alone.

But Kurt is living his dream. He's on Broadway. And the kids are old enough to understand all of that.

Why can't I understand it?

I pick up my phone off the coffee table, and dial Kurt's number.

Ring, ring, ring...

"Hello?" a sleepy Kurt says. I can practically see him now, hardly conscious, and it makes me chuckle.

"Hey honey," I say. "I woke you up?"

"Oh, Blaine," I can here him rub the sleep out of his eyes and sit up in bed. "Everything's okay, right?"

"Everyone's fine here," I tell him. "But your daughter was screaming in the middle of this night last night, poor thing."

"She had a bad dream?" Kurt asks, concerned.

"Yeah," I say. "She was crying her eyes out, sobbing and everything. I haven't seen her that upset in a long time."

"Oh, poor girl!" Kurt's voice is high, of course, as it always does when he's upset or anxious. "Did you get her some warm milk? Or sing to her? Did you sing to her, Blaine? You know, Isn't She Lovely? She would've liked that. And, you didn't leave her alone, did you? Oh my, wait, it wasn't that same dream she had when she was little? If it was we should really take her to a sleep therapist because we're way too old to go through that ordeal again, Blaine. How long ago was that, even? Six, seven years? Oh, gosh Blaine, I should've been there!"

"Kurt," I say, and can't help but chuckle at his concern. "Sweetheart, you need to calm down. She's okay; she's a tough little girl. I sang to her, and I slept in her bed. She wasn't alone, Kurt. She's just fine."

Kurt breathes a sigh of relief. "Okay, good. That's good. You... You did good, honey."

"Thanks," I chuckle to myself.

"You know she called me last night, right?"

I pause for a second. "No, I didn't. What time?"

"Right after the show," Kurt says. "Around 5:45."

"When me and Sawyer were at August's game," I mutter to myself. "She sounded fine when you talked to her?"

"You know, I thought she sounded sad but she said she was fine," Kurt explains. "Andrea came in, when we were talking, and I had to say goodbye kind of quickly. I hope... Oh, she might've been upset about that."

I roll my eyes and can't help but sigh, because that Andrea woman seems to always be intruding. There's been more than a couple times that I've been talking to my husband and Miss Andrea has popped in, and Kurt's dropped me like I'm hot. "I... I didn't really talk too much to her after we got home from the game. It was late. She went to bed pretty early."

"That doesn't really explain the nightmare," Kurt says. "But… Is she awake?"

"Not yet," I tell him. "I'm hoping she'll be able to sleep in. Do you want me to get her to call you?"

"Yeah," he says. "Oh, but not before about six or so. I've got rehearsal and then a meeting with Andrea at three."

I roll my eyes. "Got it."

"How've you been, honey? You sound stressed."

I sigh, and crack a smile at my husband's concern. "I'm just worried about Vi. And I miss you, Kurt. We all miss you."

"I miss you, too, babe," Kurt says. "The boys are good?"

"Yeah, they're doing great. August scored the winning touchdown in his game last night, and Sawyer's busy campaigning for your Tony nomination."

"Awe, Sawyer's a sweetheart," Kurt says, and laughs. "I have no idea where Auggie's athletic ability came from, though!"

"No clue," I chuckle.

Kurt laughs. "Oh, honey, I better let you go. I have to be in rehearsal in an hour."

"Okay," I say.

"Don't sound so sad, Blaine!" Kurt says. "I love you, sweetie."

"Love you too," I tell him. "Have a good day!"

"Will do, babe," Kurt says. "You too!"

I hang up the phone and sigh, glancing down at the family photograph.

God, things sure have changed over the years.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Hey there! I'm so so sorry it's taken me so long to update! I've been so busy with school and exams, and then camp and my birthday, and on top of it all I'm getting ready to move across the country! Just now, when I'm sick, have gotten to writing this again. I really do love this story, it's just so easy to write! It took me only about half an hour to write the entire thing! Anyhow, I hope you all like it!**

"Viola!" I hear Sawyer's voice in my ear. "Viola! Wake up! Dad made pancakes and they're gonna get cold!"

I roll over, hardly awake, and see Sawyer looking at me expectantly. I mumble sleepily. "What?"

"Dad made…"

"Sawyer, you didn't need to wake your sister!" I hear Dad say from the hall. Sawyer turns to face him. "Go eat your breakfast, I'll be there in a second."

Chuckling, Dad sits at the end of my bed. I prop myself up on my elbows.

"How'd you sleep?" Dad asks.

"Alright," I say. "How about you? I hope I didn't hog the bed."

"No, I slept well."

I sigh, rubbing my eyes. "I guess I'm getting too old to have my Daddy sleep with me, huh?"

"It's always nice to have someone near you when you're scared," Dad smiles at me, stroking my cheek. "Do you want to talk about your dream?"

"I… um… uh…" I mutter. "I… I really can't remember it, Dad. It was… kinda scary, though."

"You're sure?"

Dad can see right through me, as per usual. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He get up, "I'd better go to your brother. Pancakes are waiting for you when you're ready."

I get up and head towards my bathroom. "I'll be right there."

I walk into the bathroom, and just as I'm about to shut the door I hear Dad's voice.

"Viola?"

I walk out. "Yeah?"

Dad looks concerned as he stares at the ground, shuffling his feet like a nervous little boy. Sawyer does just the same thing when he's about to ask for something. "You'd tell me, wouldn't you, if something was troubling you?"

"Of course," I reply quickly, flashing him what I hope to be a convincing smile.

"Good," Dad looks at me. "I'd hope so."

I go into the bathroom, not looking forward to facing him at the breakfast table.

* * *

"Before I forget, Viola," Dad says as I sit down in front of my pancakes. "I talked to Papa earlier, he'd like you to call him after he's done work, after six or so."

"He doesn't want to talk to me?" Sawyer whines.

"Of course he does, buddy," Dad pats Sawyer's hand. "You can talk to him tonight as well."

Sawyer, seemingly satisfied with his answer, continues eating his pancakes. I take a bite into mine, and they taste just as good as they've always been. Whenever both Dad and Papa are home, Dad makes breakfast, usually something simple and classic like pancakes or waffles, and Papa makes these elaborate, often foreign dinners with things that are stuffed with herbs or minced or something fancy like that. Nonetheless, they're both delicious, though it makes me want Papa to come home even more thinking that I'll be eating Dad's famous (if not mediocre) macaroni and cheese tonight.

"Does Auggie have a game tonight?" I ask, thinking that if he does we may go out for dinner.

"I don't believe so…" Dad thinks as he chews his pancakes. "Actually, I think he's having a get-together with some of his teammates."

"Could we go to the beach today, Dad?" Sawyer asks. "Before it gets too cold."

Dad nods his head. "Sure, that sounds like fun. Doesn't it, Vi?"

"Sure," I say. "But I don't really feel like going to the beach."

Sawyer laughs mischievously. "What's not to like about the beach?"

I stare at him, giving him the death glare that is internationally known between siblings. "I just don't feel like going out, that's all."

"Gosh, sorry!" Sawyer whines. "We can still go, right Dad?" "Do you not feel well?" Dad asks. He reaches over to feel my forehead. I move away from his hand, and he replies with a hurt puppy-dog look that kills me inside.

"I'm fine, really."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes!" I almost shout.

Dad is silent.

"Are we going, Dad?" Sawyer asks, breaking the awkward silence.

"Yeah, yeah," Dad says. "Of course. Why don't you see if your brother wants to come with us?"

"I guess," Sawyer says, taking plate, which has been licked clean, to the kitchen counter and running off to August's room.

"Excuse me," I say, rising and taking my plate to the kitchen before Dad has a chance to say anything. I scurry off to my bedroom, leaving my dad alone at the table.

It's like my heart is being torn from my chest.

* * *

"We're ready to go, Vi!" Dad says as he pokes his head into my bedroom.

"Okay," I reply, looking up from the book I've been 'reading' as I contemplate things. "Have fun."

"No, no," Dad sighs as he walks into the room. He stands at the end of my bed, arms crossed, with a little grin on his face. "You're coming with us."

"I thought we decided this morning that I was staying here," I tell him. "I don't want to go."

Dad wanders around the bed. "I know you don't want to come, but I'm not going to let you sit alone in your room and get in your head and not spend quality time with your family."

I just look at him.

Dad puts his face right in front of mine. "I'm your father and I'm putting my foot down!"

He still has a silly grin on his face, and he doesn't sound angry but seems impressed with his defiance, so I can't help but smirk. "But I want to finish my book!"

Taking it out of my hands, he looks at the cover. "To Kill A Mockingbird? I've read this a million times; I can tell you everything that happens while we're at the beach. Besides, you've seen the movie."

I just grin.

"Look, kiddo," Dad puts the book on my nightstand and sits at the end of the bed. "Family time is important. And I know there's something bugging you…"

"Nothing's bugging me," I counter.

He shakes his head. "I'm your Dad, Viola. I always know when something's bugging you. Anyway, all I want is to spend some time with all my children. Is that too much to ask?"

I take a deep breath. "No."

Dad smiles. "Good. Now get your bathing suit and everything you need and meet me downstairs in five minutes."

I nod.

Dad leans in to kiss me on the forehead. "Thank you, sweetheart. You make your old man very happy."

"Right," I say. Dad leaves the room and I sigh, praying to God that nobody I know will be at the beach.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Hi guys! I've been having trouble continuing with the plot I had going in this story, so I've decided to mix things up a bit. This chapter takes place two months after the last chapter. The story will progress from here, with flashbacks into what we missed during those 2 months. I think this format will make the story more interesting overall... I hope you all agree! So, consider the last 4 chapters an introduction, to get to know all of the characters and the main plot of the story, which I think is depicted pretty well in this chapter.

Reviews are always appreciated!

Enjoy!

* * *

I want to do it.

I want to hurt myself. I want to hurt myself, cut into my skin and bleed and feel the pain because I know I deserve it. I'm worthless and people hate me and they're allowed to hate me because I am all the things they say I am.

This is isn't just some floozy plan. I've placed a razor on the edge of the bathtub. It's blades are glistening against the lights, calling to me.

Tears are streaming down my face, uncontrollably. I can't stop it; I can't stop the tears rolling down my face, the broken sobs, the desperate gaps for air.

My body is shaking and shivering like some possessed beast, thrashing rigidly from side to side. I move my head back and as I pull my hair. The edges are soaked in tears, and I pull them because I just know I'm all the things they say I am.

I know I want to do it.

The blades are calling to me, telling me all the things those kids at school tell me. They're telling me what I was heard at the beach and in the hallways. They're telling me I'm worthless, reminding me how everyone hates me and that I deserve to die.

The blades are glistening, calling to me.

I pick up the razor. I rip the blade out of the razor, and I get tiny cuts on my fingertips.

One of my fingers bleeds; little beads of bed liquid pop out along the tiny cut. I press down on it with my other finger, and the blood pours out. Just a little bit. I press down harder, and I can feel pain. Just a little bit.

It hurts, just like I deserve to hurt. Just like the kids say, just like the blades are telling me.

I hold the blade at the end of my bloody fingertips. I see it glisten in the lights, I hear it whisper those words into my brain.

And I lay the blade against my wrist. And I press down, and I glide it across my skin.

I do it again and again, and blood pours. I feel the pain, so much pain, and I see the blood pour. I feel the pain, and I still hear the whispers. And I press down harder, glide further, and more blood pours out.

The tears pour out almost as heavy as the blood. Still shaking, always sobbing, still gasping for air, I stop cutting when the sound of my cries drowns out the devilish whispers in my ears.

I close my eyes and I breathe. I catch my breath and feel my arm. It hurts so bad. It hurts like I've never hurt before; perhaps it's not the greatest pain I've endured, but it's by far the greatest pain I've felt. I feel it. I feel the pain, I feel what caused it, I feel what causes the pain.

I drop the blade onto the ceramic tile floors. It makes a 'pink' sound as it drops, bringing me back to reality. Or what it left of it.

I look at my arm. I see the mess of blood and cuts and the raw skin. I see the blood that dripped onto the tile. I see all the pain; the pain that was so deep and so powerful to cause this. This mess of blood and raw skin.

I look at my other hand, the hand that looks to innocent, covered in blood and shaking eerily. It didn't do it. That hand, that hand that held the weapon... It didn't to the damage. It didn't cause this immense pain, this thing that makes me sob and shake and cry and gasp and shiver even more.

It was my brain. It was my brain, and the whispers that filled it. The demeaning whispers, the whispers that made me feel hideous inside, the whispers that made me want to not live. The whispers that wanted me dead. It was them that made me do it. It was those hideous words, those awful things that made me not care at all.

The whispers told me to do it. And I did it.

And I know why. I know why I did it, I know why I did it. I know why there is the sharp pain in my arm, and why I feel like I'm dying inside. I know why I did it. I did it because I listened to the whispers.

I listened to the whispers. I did what they told me to do. I did it, and now I feel worse than I've ever felt before.

I've never felt more alone, more panic and pain and isolation. I've never felt more defeat and ruthless success and pain. I've never felt like this before. I feel how the whispers wanted me to feel. The whispers won, those whispers that lurked into my brain.

They told me to do it, but I did it. Why did I do it? I listened to the whispers. Why did I listen to the whispers? I listened because I believe them. Why do I believe them? I believed them. Because I believed them.

Because I believe them.

I tear at my hair and shake and shiver more, because I don't understand. I pull and my hair, lacing the strands with blood and making my arm hurt even more, because I don't understand. I don't understand because I have all the answers, but I don't believe them! I don't believe them, but I believe the whispers and I believe what they tell me.

I believe in them. I believe the whispers and what they tell me. I believe them when they say I'm worthless and that everyone hates me. I believe them when they tell me that nobody will ever love me. I believe them when they tell me I'm stupid. I believe them when they tell me I should die.

I believe them when they tell me I should die. I listen to them when they tell me I should die.

I listened to them when they whispered into my brain and told me I should die.

But do I really believe them?

* * *

I walk down the hall. I feel like a zombie; a shell of a human being, taking steps of no meaning. The salty liquid is still falling from my eyes, streaming down my face, creating a mask of tears. My sobs have subsided but I still shake and shiver. My arms hang down beside my body. My bloody, raw arm lays there, hitting against my body lifelessly. Blood is smeared all over my arms, my hands, my hair, my face, my legs, my clothing: everything.

Dad and Auggie are watching TV in the living room, at the end of the hall. The hall seems so long, like an endless tunnel, and they are at the end of it. I can hear the sound of the television, them shifting in their seats, their soft breathing.

I see the side of their faces now. The look to kind, so pleasant, so content. So innocent, and so unsuspecting.

I can see their eyes now, gazing at the screen. I see my father. I look at him like I've looked at him millions of times before, but I don't see the father I saw earlier today. I see him ten years ago. I see him as I did all those years ago, when I was small, when he could solve my every problem.

I see my Daddy.

A muffled and cracked version of my voice calls out his name. The tears are streaming again, the wrenching sobs are lingering back. I still shake. Dad turns around. I cannot see his expression, I can only see him.

"Daddy," the voice says. "I'm not okay."


End file.
